


In a Garden of Golden Roses

by EmeraldSage



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 19th Century, Alternate Universe - Human, Aristocracy, As researched as I could, But be prepared for errors, Christmas present, F/F, I'm So Excited, Implied/Referenced Homophobia, In a Rose Garden, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, RusAme, Russo-American Relations, this took me forever, winter weather
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-27
Updated: 2017-12-27
Packaged: 2019-02-22 21:34:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13175649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmeraldSage/pseuds/EmeraldSage
Summary: A weary wounded war hero and his need for a bride meets the youngest son of Russia's newest American ambassador and his need for escape.  Toss in two mischievous sisters, two meetings that couldn't have been foretold, and four young homosexual adults in a homophobic world - well, let's see where this goes.I'm sorry that summary sucks.Rated M for safety.





	In a Garden of Golden Roses

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Usagi323](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Usagi323/gifts).



> I'm sorry I'm so late on this fic, but I hope this makes up for the delay!!! Merry Christmas and Happy Holidays Usagi323, I hope you like it!!!
> 
> Note: In the first part until the break, all the dialogue is conducted in French, which was the language of the Russian court and aristocracy. Alfred has something of a gift for languages, and on top of being the Ambassador’s son, knows English, French, Russian, amongst others. The second part – after the break, and shift in POV – the dialogue will be in English, unless italicized, then it will be Russian or French (I will specify). The same applies to after the third break. Sorry for all the confusion!

            This night, like many of the ones before it, was cold, its chill all pervasive throughout the bowels of the grand castle he and his family had long called their home.  The sky was dark, though it showed very little change from the overcast day that had threatened to loose a snow storm upon the people laboring atop the green earth.  The scent of a snowfall to come lingered in the air, blending with the frosted greenery that lingered on all edges of his luxurious estate, and he inhaled deeply, relishing in the sharpness of the scent.

            Ivan sighed, turning back from where he’d been gazing out the window into his gardens to stare at the sea of women and courtiers filling his grand ballroom, and felt disdain twist the corner of his lips down into a scowl.  He restrained anything else too overt, but the wash of fatigue that came with interacting with the veritable hordes of women who descended upon him seeking his fame, his fortune, his prestige…sometimes, it was too much.

            But he had to, above all duty as a host, it was his duty as a son, and as a member of the aristocracy.  All his life, he’d honored his duty; first as a good son, then, as a good military man in the Czar’s campaigns against Napoleon, and now…well…he sighed.  Now was complicated.

            A gleam of gold – wheat and soft and supple, unlike the cold, unyielding metals that adorned most of those present – caught his eye, near the hallway that branched off of the balcony.  A fall of wheat toned hair blanched by the moon’s radiance, the loose ponytail swaying teasingly as its wearer ducked out of the cloistered ballroom and into the fresh air.  He almost turned, intrigued for the first time that night, before a passing noble exclaimed loudly to catch his attention.

            By the time he turned back to the gleam of gold and bright against the plague of routine, the other had vanished.

            “Milord!” a voice called cheerfully, and he turned to face yet another one of the court who’d come to seek him out, rich brown eyes intent as he made his way towards the war hero, “good to see you, sir!  Such a splendid gathering!  How do you fare, this evening?”

            “Baron Volkov,” Ivan drawled, tugging his lips into a curled smirk that made those watching flinch away as discretely as they could.  The Baron merely laughed, eyes gleaming, as if Ivan couldn’t see the greed in them.  “The servants did certainly outdo themselves this time around, did they not?”

            That cracked the bastard’s smirk, he thought with some matter of satisfaction.  It was well known amongst the elite that Baron Volkov thought servants were only fit to lick his boots and nothing more.  While many of the elite had very classist, elitist views of the common folk – Ivan included, he’d realized during the war, much to his detriment – Volkov was a class above the rest of them in regards to how he acted, snotty haughtiness and all.

            “They have,” the man said through gritted teeth, before his countenance turned into an almost devious smile, “although, I must say, I had only expected to return to your estate for your engagement.  There were rumors…ah, but one shouldn’t believe in rumors, now should they?”

            Ivan smiled, and its glasslike sharpness sent a wince around through the people surrounding him, “Indeed,” he returned, tucking away the insult in his mind, “rumors are always flying around, with the most _interesting_ little stories.  I remember one I heard not too long ago, something about a bowl of borscht, a puppy, and an old Prussian soldier’s uniform?”  He feels a sadistic thrill of delight when Volkov pales, noticeably to the delight of the keen eyes around him, and stutters out an agreement.  He was lucky that Ivan himself hadn’t been there that day, his retort would’ve been far more vicious, but Natalia had been, and his sister had delighted in relaying the _exact_ events that contributed to the vicious rumors spreading about Volkov at this very moment.  If nothing else, the little hint he’d dropped – which was already contributing to the steady increase in gossip around them both – would keep people from talking about what Volkov wanted to address.

            His impending marriage.

            Oh, he hadn’t started courting anyone, nor had anyone caught his interest.  He was still, as he had been his entire life, attracted to men, and that would never change.  However, the Czar had made it well known that while his preferences would be tolerated – there had been a good deal of suspicion, of course, about the nature of Czar Alexander’s relationship with Napoleon before Napoleon invaded Russia and broke their treaty, and the czar was many things but he was very rarely a hypocrite – he _had_ to find a wife and have an heir.  And as the years passed, the pressure on him to marry had grown exponentially.  Comments like Volkov’s had become common place, the gossip had turned to little else but _who would he pick_ , and it drove him mad.

            He enjoyed hosting as much as he’d enjoyed being shot while on campaign.  That is to say, _not at all_.

            It was blue that caught his eyes the second time – though he’d been subconsciously watching for gold – as he was moving away from the dance floor yet again, and it was the sky he saw for the split second those enchanting orbs locked with his own.  He’d almost faltered in the conversation he’d been engaging in when he noticed that brilliant blues were accompanied by that fall of bright wheat that’d caught his attention earlier on in the evening.  Thankfully, the years of suffering through etiquette tutors and the various parties and galas held by the nobility meant he caught himself rather admirably.  He waited for a chance to move away from the rather dull conversation – just another courtier trying to emphasize the quality traits their daughter had, joining in the push against him to get married – and kept half an eye and a good deal of awareness on those bright blue eyes.

            The blue eyes belonged to a young man that Ivan would swear up and down that he’d never seen before.  And interestingly enough, that familiar new face was dancing with his _sister_ , whom he could’ve sworn disliked men entirely.

            He startled as he realized their progress towards the hidden staircase that the staff – and sometimes, even the family – would use to escape into the garden from the balcony.  He narrowed his eyes when he noticed the sly smile on his sister’s face, and began the process of excusing himself from his present company.

            By the time he managed to excuse himself, the mysterious young man was missing – having presumably vanished into the garden – and Natalia was waiting for him.

            He looked at her expression – smug and satisfied, like he’d done something she’d been counting on – and said to her, eyes narrowed, “You’ve been plotting, Natalia.”

            “Only for you, Big Brother,” she said slyly, before turning to eye something in the garden, and smiled.  “You’ve been watching for him all night.”

            “Him?” he asked pointedly, and his sister laughed.

            He waited, mildly impatient, and she smiled slyly as the laughter petered out, “You’ve never asked after someone like this before, Big Brother,” she murmured in amused delight, however well masked.  He gave her a flat look, and she smirked, “Very well, then.  He’s the American ambassador’s only son, Alfred – the youngest of the pair of twins he has.”

            “American?” he murmured, slightly surprised.  The American ambassadors had never blended as seamlessly in the Russian court as this young man had, though with their politics being markedly different from what was played in every gala, every dance, and sly move made for the favor of the czar…well, it was hardly unexpected.  From what he knew of Ambassador Jones, the man had one foot in the real world, a hand in Washington, and an eye on the aristocracy; it wasn’t entirely unexpected from an ambassador, and _definitely_ unsurprising from anyone who attended these dull old parties.  The talk about his daughter ran likewise:  a good, polite young woman with good prospects, and the apple of her father’s society climbing eye.  The rumors about his _son_ , however…

            Were rather _conspicuously_ lacking.

            “I’ve heard of the daughter -,” oh yes, _incessantly_ , every time Jones was in his vicinity, he seemed to wish to talk of nothing else, “ – but I didn’t know the ambassador had a son.”

            Natalia rolled her eyes, but there was a hint of displeasure tugging at her lips, and it made his mental hackles rise up defensively, “I’m sure the ambassador would rather he didn’t,” she said sourly.

            “A troublemaker,” he inquired, raising a brow.  The younger man _had_ held the light of mischief in his eyes, but hadn’t seemed like a conventional firebrand.  He highly doubted there was anything conventional about that young man at all.  “Is he that ill-behaved?”

            “No,” she responded slowly, a considering light in her eyes as she studied him once more, “no, all I’ve heard from my friends overseas say the ambassador’s son is kind, charmingly sincere, and precious by all means _for_ that sincerity in their minds, despite his penchant for mischief.  However,” and here she paused just _slightly,_ double checking for any lingering eavesdroppers, before she lowered her voice and added, “the rumor _abroad_ , however…in very _exclusive_ circles…is that he’s very much like _you_.”

            “Like me?” he asked incredulously.  What on earth did that mean?

            Natalia huffed in frustration, eyeing him in a way that made him anxious for all that he was her _elder_ brother, “He thinks of women as friends and nothing more,” she said pointedly, watching his dawning realization, “and right up until around six months before his father was assigned the ambassador’s post, he used to be a part of a young men’s club that was _exclusively_ for those of a… _similar_ preference.”

            _Ah_ , he thought, glad it was cold enough on the balcony that the flush in his cheeks could be considered from the cold rather than the embarrassment staining his cheeks after having his sister have to spell it out for him, _like that._

            “He’s rather sweet, too,” she mused, and his brows raised.  His sister so _rarely_ commented politely about other men, given that she, much like he, preferred the company of those of her own gender, “as charming as they say, though no one quite managed to inform me of how _tired_ he was.”

            Ivan eyed her curiously, “ _Tired_ , Natalia?” he asked, slightly baffled.

            She was silent then, for a moment’s pause, before she said, in a voice far warmer than she’d ever used to someone outside their family, “Perhaps tired isn’t quite the word… _resigned_ , Vanya, he felt resigned.”

            Resigned.  Resigned to a life that had been planned for him, that he had no say in; Natalia didn’t have to elaborate, because Ivan himself knew how that felt.  If the younger man _did_ share a similar sexual preference with Ivan, and – as Natalia had suggested – his father knew of it, he was likely facing the inevitable pressure to marry, and prevent any scandal from emerging that could ruin his father’s ambitions, and color his sister’s marriage prospects.

            But even though Natalia had spoken to him, had watched him, and collected rumors from her network of “friends” about him – which was more than slightly intriguing given Natalia usually thought of men she wasn’t related to as nothing more than a waste of intelligence until they proved otherwise – _Ivan_ had seen the fire burning in blue eyes, even though he’d seen them for the first time this very night.

            A fire that refused to leave him alone, that told him, in the depths of his mind, that he may have _finally_ found an answer to the question he always asked himself….

            Natalia smirked at him, eyes sparkling with something mischievous and a hint of something deeper as she studied him and his reaction.  “You’ll catch up with him quickly enough if you head down now,” she suggested.

            His eyes darted to her before he casually leaned against the thick stone railing of the balcony, catching a glimpse of brilliant, night-washed gold and following it’s movement.  He saw the arm of the younger man’s darkened silhouette come up and yank off the end tie of his braid and shake the once tightly bound cord into a waterfall of wheat tresses.  Violet orbs traced the swish of the golden fall, unencumbered by the complex braid it had been in prior.  He doubted the young man would be able to return it to it’s complicated work on his own; it had certainly looked like he’d had help in pinning that weave together, he thought absently.  People would talk, he realized as he chased the thought across his mind, of the ambassador’s son disappearing off into the garden and returning with his hair askew.  But from the stubborn tone in his posture and the longing Ivan had recognized in the blue gaze out towards the garden maze, he would wager that the younger man didn’t quite care.

            For a moment, it felt like the world had frozen, and Ivan stared at the very real crossroads in front of him.  On the one hand, he could return to the warmth and fake comfort of his grand ballroom; he would be fawned over, presented with an endless stream of women eyeing him greedily, and let the routine take him over until he could make a safe escape.  On the other…his eyes were drawn down to the hidden stone staircase that that gleaming braid had disappeared down, into the garden’s labyrinth.  He could venture into the depths of his own courtyard and seek the answers that his curiosity had helplessly provoked.  He could satisfy his curiosity…and, _perhaps_ …he thought of the wash of gold that made him want to twine his fingers through it, the fire in cautious blue eyes that felt taunting, almost _teasing_ , and the barely restrained sense of freedom entombed by propriety that enticed any watcher into wanting to strike the chain that kept him held down.

            It had been only one night – one _glance_ – and he’d never even _met_ the boy.  And yet, _and yet_ ….

            Perhaps, he could find more than _just_ an answer tonight.  Perhaps he _wanted_ to find more than just an answer from tonight.

            Mind made up, he nodded graciously to his sister’s satisfied smirk, and descended into the maze of his garden.

* * *

           The carriage ride was just as any other carriage ride he’d taken in his life.  In other words, it was dull, boring, and bumpy as all hell.  And it certainly was fixing to be hell, given whom he was with.  James George Campbell Jones was sitting on one of the carriage benches, as regally as he could, with one elbow on the arm of the bench seat and the other holding his pipe as he smoked.  The American ambassador to the Russian Empire stared stoically at the paper in his free hand, despite the lack of light making it obviously impossible to read a single letter, and very clearly ignoring his two bright and beautiful children.

            He and his sister – twins, both nineteen, though his sister often upheld her birth _three days_ before his as some sort of leverage whenever Alfred decided to do something stupid – were, of course, said bright and beautiful children, though you’d hardly know given the way Ambassador Jones was acting.  He and Maddie – his sister Madeline’s affectionate nickname – were sitting pressed close together, and utterly silent.

            If Alfred had had his way, they would be chatting brightly and he would be doing his best to verbally, and thoroughly, assuage Maddie’s nervous anxiety about meeting Lord Ivan Braginsky, the war hero of the nobility whose injury had occurred in the wake of his tremendous success in the Napoleonic Wars, much to the Empire’s delight.  They’d known, from the moment their father had had his servants drag them out of bed in the early hours of the morning for a last-minute fitting, that ol’ Jimmy Jones was angling for Maddie to snatch the brave, wealthy, _titled_ War Hero for herself.  He’d only been throwing her at every single aristocrat they’d come across, and even four years after the Napoleonic Wars had ended, Ivan Braginsky was still society’s most eligible bachelor.  Titled, wealthy with old money and an even older name, and a war hero to boot; he could’ve been the most braggadocious, heartless scoundrel that ever walked the earth, and their father still _salivated_ at the idea that Maddie might marry into his family and link the two forever.

            Although, given what Alfred had heard himself of the man, Braginsky was far from that.  He was usually considered ruthless and cold, but not unnecessarily cruel, though the rumors of his heartlessness and cruelty during the war had circled through the nobility, and even amongst the serfs like it was a wildfire.

            Not that it made any difference for their ambitious ambassador of a father.  He’d given them the usual drill down when they’d presented themselves to him this evening before they left.

            _“You remember what to say, Madeline, yes?”_ He’d said, barely waiting for the expected nod, and didn’t even see Madeline’s lemony blond curls bobble in acquiescence before he continued, “Good, now, docile, obedient - the qualities of a good wife and daughter, remember that dear.  And _you_ ,” the eager voice had switched effortlessly into something hard and vicious as his head swung towards the blank face of his only son.

            The look on the ambassador’s face abruptly twisted into one of derision and disdain, as it often had since the man had discovered Alfred’s preferences by unfortunately waltzing in on one of his ‘private gatherings,’ and said, “At least _try_ to find someone suitable tonight.”  His gaze was piercing, and standing in front of the golden-haired teenager, perhaps an inch or two taller, it was incredibly obvious whom Alfred had inherited much of his coloring and stature from, even if the ambassador’s sneer made him a far more intimidating character than Alfred’s unusually blank face.  “The lord will only help me so much in helping you marry respectably.  Sometimes I wonder what sin I committed to be cursed with such a child,” he muttered snidely as he turned away, making no attempt to keep his voice quiet.  Not that Alfred was surprised, of course.  His father had never been proud of the cheerful, free spirit his son had been, and the impossible reach and desire of his approval turned into a dream burned to ash in the Styx when the elder man had uncovered Alfred’s most dearly kept secret.

            “Arrogance and greed were on that list, last I checked,” Alfred had muttered under his breath, just to be impudent, and Maddie, who’d been standing _just_ close enough to hear, had proceeded to raise the open fan to her face as if to cover the snigger that had almost emerged at the comment.  His father had caught the sound of his voice and wheeled around, an angry, demanding expression on his face as he demanded to know what he’d said.  Alfred had, of course, replied innocently that he’d said nothing.

            Had they not been running on a slight delay for the gala, Alfred was _sure_ that his father would’ve made a bigger deal out of the snide commentary, but as it was, the man just gave him a warning look and stormed off to the carriage that had just pulled up the drive at their official residence.

            Which brought him back to where he was now, holding hands with his sister to keep her anxiety at bay and staring, bored as utter fuck, out of the carriage door’s window into the light snowfall of the night.  Their father had declined on repeating their “marching orders,” as the man called them, not even wanting to chance the coachman and the footman’s keen ears, so they stewed in the awkward silence until they arrived at the palatial manor estate of Ivan Braginsky.

            His father took off on his lonesome the moment they arrived at the manor, leaving Alfred to escort Maddie inside the estate.

            She squeezed his hand, and he realized that some of _his_ trepidation had been showing on his face, “Ready?” she asked him, and he forced his worry back.

            “Of course,” he proclaimed with a laugh and a flourish as he turned to offer her his arm.  His elder twin laughed, anxiety visibly easing, and twined her arm through his.  “Who do you take me for, Maddie?”

            “Obviously not the strapping young lad who forgot to tie off his braid, _again_ ,” she said imperiously, mischief shining in her eyes and in the burst of un-ladylike laughter that erupted from her when he frantically checked the end of his braid to make sure it hadn’t unraveled.

            Catching sight of the blue ribbon at the bottom of the golden braid, he turned to her, and deadpanned, “You’re a right witch, sister,” with a pout – though he’d never admit it – dragging at his lips.  He really didn’t want to think about the disaster from the last time they’d been in London and there had been an incident when the ribbon in his braid had been loose enough to get caught…he winced just thinking about it, the crashes and shattering glass echoing in his mind. She laughed and patted his cheek with one gloved hand, as if to banish the expression.

            “No,” she said, lips quirking as the laughter faded, “I’m your older sister.”

            “By three days,” he huffed as she pulled him forwards, trying to ignore how two of the guards by the entrance quirked an eyebrow his way.

            “Still,” she stressed with a smile, “ _as_ your elder sister, I declare that you _must_ relax and try to enjoy yourself for once, little brother.”

            “Three. _Days_ ,” he stressed once more, but there was a smile playing along his lips as they entered the estate and shucked their coats and other winter wear for the serving staff to take.  With polite smiles to the others, the ducked away and joined the wealth of other people ascending the magnificent staircase and walking into the hallway, chattering with each other as they went.

            Well, he’d certainly do his best, he thought idly, studying the ballroom as they finally made their way through the manse, it just wouldn’t be easy.  He knew it wouldn’t be long before he needed an escape route.

            Just as well it had been that he’d caught sight of the balcony almost as soon as he’d walked in, but had been unable to explore the area since he’d been accompanying his increasingly nervous sister.  Maddie was usually pretty good in balls – she excelled where he faltered in the presence of an enormous, overly judgmental audience of snobby aristocrats; the pinnacle of everything a young noblewoman should be – where he excelled in more informal gatherings.  He was perpetually cheerful and talkative, but he had opinions and he almost always shared them, no matter what people thought of them, and that wasn’t exactly the best way to approach snobbish, stuck-in-their-ways aristocrats.  More often than not, he sidelined himself, knowing very well it was better to have fewer people know who he was, than embarrass himself and have it get back to his father.  Maddie, while she disliked the premise they went for, enjoyed balls where her long years at finishing school proved their worth.

            Still, she didn’t drag him around once she’d notice him lagging as conversations would grow increasingly dull.  She’d excuse him once they were in friendlier company – usually amongst a group of young women or some of the friends she’d made while at school abroad – and he’d drift off.  Rather like he was doing now.

            The balcony was just visible through the corridor off of the side hallway.  You could still see it from the ballroom, but only from a certain angle, letting it offer a large measure of privacy to whomever sought refuge in the frosted-nipped air.  That was where Alfred sought his refuge now, slipping around all the conversing nobles and their upper crust invited guests with the ease of long-practice.  He paused only for a split second when he felt the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, telling him someone was watching him.  He glanced around curiously, but had to duck into the hallway before he found his answer when he realized his father was wandering around, a very prominent frown on his face, and eyes scanning the ballroom with a look in his eyes that Alfred had long learned to associate with him.

            Cursing lightly, he ducked into the small balcony that overlooked the large, luxurious garden.  His breath caught the moment his eyes adjusted to the limited lighting around the balcony, and fixed upon the glory that was the gardens of the luxurious estate.  In the dark, it was hard to make out individual fixtures of the landscape, but even so, it was beautiful.  There were maze passageways that he longed to trace, the shining domes of stone capped gazebos he could see even this far away, and a large field of flowers, clearings, and other greenery he could see himself getting lost in.  With the scent of snow in the air, he could see himself walking through the shrubbery, cloak swishing around his heels, the soft fur of the hood pressing against his cheek, and the lightest dusting of snow on the entirety of the landscape...it was utterly magnificent, and something within him _yearned_ ….

            “The gardens are lovely, aren’t they?” an unfamiliar voice inquired to his side in lightly accented English, startling him.  He turned, curious, and had to fight back the urge to straighten when he saw a woman – a teenager really, she looked about his age, though he was never sure – eyeing him with something oddly keen in her indigo eyes.

            “Yes, quite,” he agreed, “Though I must admit, I think they’d look lovelier with a coating of snow, though,” slipped out of his mouth before he realized how that might’ve been taken.

            Before he could correct himself, she smirked, “My brother often agrees,” she said, “sometimes I think the landscape artist designed the entire estate with such in mind.  After all, it is hardly unusual for snow to fall here.”

            He smiled faintly, and she quirked a brow at his expression, “Is it much different in America, then?  I’ve studied mostly in Europe, and the northern regions are all fairly similar.”

            He grinned, the expression coming a lot more genuinely when thinking about his home, “It’s different in different parts of the country, but I grew up in Maryland, before we moved for Father’s job.  Mom’s family lived down south, and when we’d spend Christmas there, there was hardly ever snow – maybe once every few years.  Hardly any good for a snowball fight, or even general joshing around.  Up in Maryland it was more common, but usually after the New Year passed.  It’s generally more frequent in the Midwestern region of the country, I think.  But the area hasn’t quite been explored as much, it’s still being settled, so I’d have to inquire.”

            Her smile was colored with amusement, “I take it that acclimatizing to Russian weather will be an interesting experience,” she suggested, and he laughed.

            “I suppose so,” he answered, but there was something bitter and wistful in his voice at the same time.  “We don’t know how long Father will be posted here, though.  I’d love to stay for a while,” he added, and it was genuine, “I am tired of moving so often.”

            The last was said under his breath, and he wasn’t even sure if he’d said it aloud or he’d just thought it – heavens knew he’d thought about it long and hard and bitterly enough over the years – until the woman at his side snorted.

            “We are all tired of something, Mister Jones,” she said, not unsympathetically, composing herself in an instant, “I suppose it’s a tribute to your comportment that no one has ever said such of you before.”

            “I’ll take that as a complement,” he said with a wry smile, “I have the oddest feeling they’re quite rare,” he added, feeling mischief bubbling in his veins.  The woman let a pristine brow raise.

            “Well,” she said, “you’re not wrong about that.”

            “Ah, you have me at a disadvantage,” he chirped after a moment of silence, his eyes brightening, “You know who I am – I’m pretty sure you’ve known since you approached me – but I don’t know who you are.  You have my apologies, in case I’m missing the obvious – Madeline often tells me that I do,” he added with a charming smile that only served to make her more amused, “– but I would like to know what to call you, if I may?”

            She thought for a moment, glancing off to the side for a brief second, before she met his bright blue gaze with her own indigo one, and said, “You may call me Natalia.”

            He smiled, the genuine warmth in it startling even him.  “You may call me Alfred, if you wish,” he returned politely.  It was odd, he thought, but this didn’t feel like a conversation with an eager young woman who wanted to get to know him.  No, this felt more like a test, oddly enough.  He was about to ask after it when he realized her eyes had darted off to the side, like they had periodically through their conversation.

            He felt his lips curve into a smile when he realized where her keen, sharp gaze was darting too, softening as they went, “That’s my sister, by the way,” he said, not unkindly, and her eyes snapped back to his, only _slightly_ startled.  “I’m sure she’d love it if she had some _competent_ company tonight,” he added somewhat dryly, taking in the situation his poor sister was in, struggling to deal with the overly excited dance partner she’d been paired with.

            He glanced back over to the young woman he’d been speaking with, and took in the way her eyes softened, and then sharpened as she took in Maddie’s stuttering steps and hesitant gaze as the dancer who was leading her was far from capable of even that much.  He saw the gentling of her countenance and the sharpness of attraction as it blossomed so beautifully with the two ladies who shared a pair of indigo eyes and, quite obviously, a preference.  For each other, that is.

            “I’m sure,” she demurred, but there was a warm edge to the smirk on her lips, and he was positive he’d read her right.

            She then seemed to decide to take up his suggestion, because without another word to him, she strode over to the dance floor, where the poor, graceless dancer who was trying to charm his sister was giving his – rather pathetic, from what Alfred could hear _all_ the way over here – attempt at a conversation.  She cut into it rather effortlessly, ruthlessly too if the expression on the poor buffoon said anything, and curled her arm around Maddie, leading her off to another corner in the ballroom.  They began conversing in earnest then, and Alfred felt something ease inside him when he realized how his sister had perked up and her whole face cleared from the exasperation that had been present earlier.

            Unfortunately, as he was about to turn back to the balcony, he caught sight of his father’s warning glare directed at him.  He bit back a grimace and sighed, before trudging back into the fray.  He’d bet it would take another hour or so before his father’s hawk-eye let up enough for him to escape back towards the balcony.

            He was wrong.

            Almost two hours had passed, and he still couldn’t rid himself of his father’s eyes.  He’d almost reached a furious level of frustration – about to dodge out of the ballroom regardless of how his father would punish him for it later – when Natalia swept by and snatched Alfred by the arm, leading him onto the dance floor.  He caught a glimpse of his father before he’s swirled off into a waltz, and saw the stunned look in indigo eyes – the same ones Maddie inherited – melting into something delighted.  He realized then, that his father _knew_ whom he was dancing with.  He might only know her by her first name, but his father’s reaction – and how it swelled outwards to many of the aristocrats around the other man – told him that she was _important_ , whomever she was.

            He looked at her, half grateful and a mite suspicious, “You’re not just trying to make a point, are you?” he asked wryly.

            She smirked at him, letting him take the lead for all the eyes watching them, “Of course not,” she said, and he’d almost think she was offended if he hadn’t they oddest feeling that she was amused instead, “But best give them something new to talk about, hmm?”

            “Gossipy old birds,” he muttered under his breath, and she laughed as he twirled them around.

            “Well, they can’t exactly help it,” she retorted, “it’s not like they have much else to do in life.”

            He laughed, but before he could retort back, he locked eyes, however briefly, with a pair of violet orbs that startled, before studying him.  Natalia pulled him into another dance just as he registered the increased attention, before he could even register who it was that had been staring at him.  There was an oddly mischievous gleam in her eye, and even though he had the strongest urge to ask her whom it had been that had been staring at him, he had a feeling she wouldn’t answer.

            “Hmm,” Natalia hummed, contemplative, in a voice he was certainly not supposed to hear, “you might actually be good for them.”

            He raised a brow, but she didn’t say a word, merely studied him with a powerful, almost stately, gaze.  Finally, the music ended, and they bowed/curtsied to each other, before he offered her his arm to escort her off the dance floor.  They ducked the crowds and she quietly directed him towards the balcony they’d first met at earlier in the evening.

            “Your father’s busy introducing your sister to several other _eligible bachelors_ ,” she scoffed, and he only realized what she was doing when she’d moved away from him and pulled back some of the dangling vines that had climbed up a nearly invisible set of stairs.  “I’m sure he won’t miss you for some time yet.”

            He paused for a moment, thoughts so heavy that he could almost feel them around him, twisting stiflingly in the air around them, before he looked to the young noble woman who’d given him the out he so desperately needed.

            “Why are you helping me?” he asked her, truly baffled, because of all those he’d met in the upper crust of society, not one had ever put themselves out there to help him like Natalia had this evening.  And it hadn’t even been for herself, he’d realized.

            She eyed him with an intensity almost equalling the regal stare she’d given him earlier, and hummed, “I think you would be good for them.”

            “Well,” he said with a hefty sigh, feeling a weight sink into his stomach at being set up yet again, and turned with wry eyes to meet rich indigo, “which pretty lady are you playing matchmaker for, then?”  Who was the person she wanted to help?  Who did she think he’d be good for?  How could she even _tell_?

            The woman just smirked at him, the corner of her mouth twisting just a tad at the corner as if she was thinking about something particularly amusing that was about to make her day.  “Well, he’s certainly _pretty_ ,” she muttered under her breath, before turning to him, “When you come back from the gardens, I’ll give you your answer,” she said, finally, before turning and making her way back into the ballroom with the grace of a queen, skirts swishing regally behind her.

            No fool, despite what his father often thought, he slipped away through alcove, and down the staircase, towards the gardens.

            The moon had been bright and beaming when they’d left the ambassadorial residence, but now, there was a heavy cloud cover, with the threat of snow almost palpable in the air around them.  The gale was hearty and hale, and he’d had to duck through some of the heavier areas of foliage in an attempt to dodge the brunt of it.  He sighed, frustrated, when the tail end of his braid caught on the edge of a branch, and instead of letting the whole thing get caught, he snagged the blue ribbon at its edge and tugged it off completely.  With a light shake of his head, his cascade of hair tumbled free, and he snagged it over his other shoulder so it wouldn’t get caught on the rack of branches he was passing.  He could almost _feel_ a pair of eyes on him, but they vanished before long, and instead of stressing about a watcher, he let the cool breeze of the garden and the freedom it promised take him captive.

            His breath caught, after a few minutes wandering the maze, when his eyes fixed upon an elegant silhouette not too far off of the garden path.  As he came closer, he recognized the wealth of night-shaded roses and other flowers twining in elegant columns around the pale stone pillars of the gazebo.  It was beautiful, he thought, almost breathless as he trailed a pale gloved hand along the frost dusted, flower crowned stone.  He shivered as a gust of wind tumbled through path, and ducked into the gazebo’s sheltering dominion and slid against a pillar as the gale howled.  He pulled his coat tighter against him, almost wishing he’d gone down to the coat closet and snagged his thick, furred overcoat.  But that would’ve given him away should his father have thought to ask any of the serving staff, and that was the last thing he wanted to do.

            He sighed once the gale abated, moving back into the center of the gazebo, tracing the intricate designs engraved on the stone beneath his feet.  He wanted to dance here, with only the wind as his witness and the cloud strewn skies concealing the watchful moon and the twinkling stars that oft spied on him as he twirled through the steps of the song in his heart when no one who knew him was watching.

            Well, that was a bit unfair.  The stars certainly knew him well enough by now.  His father’s new serving staff at the ambassador’s residence didn’t know him well enough to catch him every time he snuck out to dance in the snow dusted garden.  He treasured each dance dearly, and as much as he missed the countryside of Maryland, or the cold and dreary hedge fields of his cousin’s Massachusetts getaway, he loved this new land all the more for his new freedom during the night.

            A soft rustle drew his attention from his memories, shocking him out of the first position he’d taken without any conscious thought, and his head snapped back towards the path he’d come through.  He stared for almost a full minute, but then another brief breezy gale drifted through and the crown of flowers woven around the dome of the gazebo rustled weightily like the sound of rain breaking across paved gravel.

            He sighed, feeling the set of his shoulders relax, tension easing through his body.  He framed himself between two of the flower-wrapped pillars and stretched out his arms so his hands were planted firmly amidst each pillar, before pressing himself forwards and glancing down the path.  Not a soul in sight, he noted firmly with no small amount of relief.

            “ _Quite the place to sulk,_ ” a voice rumbled from behind him in fluid Russian, surprising him briefly given that the language of the court was _French_ , and it took him all he had to stop himself from flailing and whirling around in shock.

            He did still whirl around, but the flailing would’ve just been the cherry on top of an already dismally embarrassing evening.  Especially flailing in front of – daaaaamn.  _Damn._ Why did he have to be so hot?

            The violet-eyed man, who’d literally _appeared_ out of the hedges on the other side of the gazebo from the nothing that had been there before – and Alfred was _incredibly_ skilled at stealth, he _knew_ no one had been following him, or at least he’d _though_ he’d known – was striking.  Most of the nobility did tend towards adorable children, and even more attractive adults, but this man took the cake.  He was hitting all of the buttons, all the things Alfred had realized attracted him to other men – his hair shone silver in the night-washed garden, only the moonlight giving them their eyes on such a cloudy night, with orbs of violet that pierced him with their gaze.  And the build on that man, tall –  taller than _him_ , even, and likely would be taller than Alfred would be when he would stop growing – with a sturdy, well-muscled build that certainly didn’t hide the fact that the man in front of him could probably break him in half.  _Ex-military then_ , his mind noted, compiling the medals on his formal outfit and the build, _probably fought against Napoleon_ , it murmured, impressed.  Just because he was American, and lord knows they’d had their own problems while Europe was dealing with the Napoleonic Wars, didn’t mean he was totally ignorant of how sweeping the issue of one French dictator had been.

            And a man of nobility, who’d hit all of Alfred’s favored qualities, and fought in the Napoleonic War, living still to tell the tale… _why_ did that description sound familiar again?

            Crap, he’d taken too long to respond, he realized, “ _I’m not sulking_ ,” he grouched petulantly, wincing at the tone of his voice as it came out.

            A smirk drew on pale lips, “ _No_?” he inquired emphatically, “ _yet you seem rather content to wander in the gardens with a snowstorm threatening to break, not a friend or other company within sight._ ”

            “ _Do you not count as company then?_ ” he asked pointedly, giving a piercing look to the other man, “ _given that you’re here, wandering the gardens and disturbing people on a whim?_ ”

            _“Ah,_ ” the Russian huffed, amused, “ _but you did not know I was here.  Could you truly call me company in such a light?_ ”

            Alfred crossed his arms across his chest, and gave the mysterious noble a _look_ , “ _It need not be so strict, I just need a name_.”

            “ _You don’t know who I am_?” the voice was unmistakably amused, but in the slight widening of violet eyes, Alfred could see the brief moment of shock that crossed him.  He almost cursed – if this was someone important that he needed to know, his father was going to hear about it and he’d get a _blistering_ lecture, worse even, if his father was already mad like he always was these days – but he crossed his arms in front of him anyways, the picture of defiance.

            It just made the other man’s lips twitch.  He restrained a twitch of his own and raised a brow, “ _Should I?_ ” he inquired, voice mockingly sweet.

            A secretive smile rose on the other man’s lips, something Alfred couldn’t quite place sparking in his eyes as something _shifted_ in his stance.  Something had noticeably changed in the other man, he realized as the man straightened to full height, and something equally noticeable stirred in Alfred’s stomach, making him twist his fingers in the material of his outfit, unseen behind his crossed arms, with the beginnings of nervousness.

            “ _No_ ,” the man mused, stepping closer and Alfred pointedly – however nervously – refused to step backwards, “ _I suppose you shouldn’t_.”

* * *

           The younger man utterly fascinated Ivan.  There was defiance even through the fear he could see bubbling up in the corners of the teenager’s eyes, and, interestingly enough, the assertion that he didn’t know who Ivan was…it was _genuine_.

            How refreshing and intriguing all at once!  Rare was it that Ivan found someone who didn’t recognize him on sight.  Oh, he was sure the boy had heard of him – the way his father’s ambitions seemed to lean, it was all but guaranteed – but to be unaware of him, even when he was the one hosting…well, it was quite intriguing.  Not to mention the sarcasm.

            He was currently looking at Ivan incredulously, “Shouldn’t you give me a name if we’re to be considered company?” He snapped, slightly offended, and Ivan felt like smirking.

            “What’s a name to an experience?” Ivan retorted, smiling internally at the exasperated face that the ambassador’s son was making, “Something of a lesser value, I’m sure, Mister Jones.”

            The way the teenager stiffened was undeniable, but his eyes hardened, “You have my name,” he said after a split-second pause, “that’s hardly fair.  You’ve something of an advantage, sir.”

            “Sir, am I?” Ivan inquired, raising a brow, watching him flush with delight bubbling in his veins, “How odd, I thought those considered company were oft’ of equal status.  How then, did we estrange ourselves so quickly?”

            “Very few, even of the nobility, are aware that my father has a son,” Alfred said, after a moment of contemplative pause, his gaze shrewd as it locked on Ivan, “much less would know me by sight.”  He gave Ivan a dazzling, cunning smile, “It never hurts to be cautious,” he proposed demurely.

            It might’ve worked, had Ivan not seen the wicked smile of mischief in his eyes.  He hid his own smile behind the thick fabric of his scarf and raised a brow at the teenager.  “Caution,” he stated dryly, “might’ve worked if I hadn’t caught you dancing in the rose garden.”

            “Not to worry,” he added, when he noticed the hint of alarm bleeding through into the teenager’s eyes, “I’ll not say a thing.  Though I must inquire where you’ve learnt it, I don’t believe I recognized it.”  And considering how many ballets he’d been to, that was a very pleasant surprise.

            A faint smile crossed the teen’s lips, “You likely wouldn’t have,” he asserted, “It’s nothing fancy.  My sister’s the one who knows how to dance,” he added, somewhat bitterly, and Ivan raised a brow.

            “But it wasn’t your sister I followed into a garden, was it?” he chuckled, feeling, a flood of amusement rush through him when Alfred flushed a brilliant red, visible even in the night’s darkness.

            He could see the teenager mentally deciding to ignore the question he was biting to ask, and retort with, “Well if you had, I doubt we’d be talking so pleasantly at the moment.”

            Ivan chuckled, “She’d have little to no interest me, either way.  She seems to prefer more… _feminine_ company.”  He watched Alfred stiffen at that, a hint of panic flitting through blue eyes, before he followed up with, “Not that I take issue with that.  My sister’s much the same.  You met her on the balcony, if I’m not mistaken.”

            Alfred’s eyes widened, “Miss Natalia?” he said, and Ivan couldn’t stop himself from blinking, stunned.  He’d known that Natalia had taken a liking to the ambassador’s son, but to have given him her _name_?  “You’re her brother, then?  Well,” he muttered aside, under his breath, though it didn’t stop Ivan from barely catching it, “at least now I know whom she was fishing for.”

            It didn’t _completely_ derail Ivan from his train of thought, but it made him insanely curious as to what he and Natalia had talked about…and what she was planning.  He may have been her elder brother, but a wise man knew when to concede his battles, and growing up with Natalia was a lesson in incomparable humility.

            “Natalia’s brother,” he mused, instead of focusing on any possible plots that would drive him mad, “I don’t think I’ve ever been identified as such before.”  Most people he spoke to knew him either by his title or his reputation.

            “You’ll not give me your name,” Alfred grumbled, rolling his eyes, “how else do you expect me to identify you?”

            “Fair enough,” Ivan chuckled, and watched Alfred’s grip tighten with a sly smirk curling on the corner of his lips.  Obviously, the teen had been hoping he’d use the out to introduce himself.  But he certainly wasn’t going to trick Ivan with _that_ one.  “The rumors don’t do you justice, you know,” he murmured.  Sure, there were no rumors in Russia _yet_ , but by the way the teenager stiffened, that certainly wasn’t true elsewhere.

            “Gossiping old birds,” he hissed under his breath, and Ivan almost laughed.

            “Ones you don’t listen too, I’m sure,” he suggested, “given you don’t know my name.”

            Alfred huffed, irate, “It shouldn’t be too hard to find out, I assure you,” he said coolly, “If you’re as infuriating in public as you are in private, it shan’t take me long, indeed.”

            Ivan _did_ laugh at that, especially when Alfred huffed, and whirled around, his long, loosened tresses cascading around his neck and whipping around to whack him in the face.  The teenager growled in frustration and whipped back around to glare at him, _and_ was caught yet again by the gale tossing his hair back in his face almost playfully.  Ivan bit back a grin at the ruffled, wide-eyed look Alfred held while attempting to glare at him at the same time.

            “I could help you, you know,” he offered, and watched, interested, at how still Alfred went at the offer, even as Ivan moved closer.  He knew that doing one’s hair was considered an intimate task, and that was half of why he was offering.  He wanted to know how the younger man would react to such an offer...and if the attraction he felt towards the wheat-haired teen was even remotely returned.

            Alfred eyed him warily, so Ivan smiled – smirked rather, but it was the thought that counted – and reassured him, “I’ve had plenty of practice, I give you my word.”  He reached forwards and laced a lock of silky spun gold around his fingers, wondering at its softness and delicate beauty, “My sisters have often demanded a level of perfection when they ask me to do their hair, and as such, I’ve acquired quite the level of skill.  Sufficient enough, for this at least.”

            “I’m afraid I don’t know you well enough for that,” was the near instant rebuttal, Alfred tossing his head so the locks Ivan had been twining around his finger slipped silkily out of his grasp.  Unease boiled in the other’s stance, but little to none of it would’ve been seen by an observer less keen than the war veteran.

            “Oh, but does that mean you’re unwilling to try?” his smile was something bordering scheming, and he had no doubt it was obvious.

            “You’re rather presumptuous, aren’t you?” the younger man retorted, shoulders refusing to bend no matter how close Ivan came to him, no matter how he loomed over the younger man, and it made Ivan smile.  The glare was set in blue eyes, but there was interest and conflict gleaming at him from within azure eyes.

            Ivan, having served in the military while his preference was unspoken knowledge amongst the higher ups, was sure he could read the thoughts crossing the younger man’s mind as he thought them.  Men like them were often subject to teasing, malicious taunting and spiteful, false advances.  He knew that very well.  He had no doubt that the ambassador’s son was wondering if this was a similar set up – if he’d been uncovered and set up for humiliation; there certainly were people who were displeased enough with Ambassador Jones’s societal climbing ambitions that they’d try such a thing.

            Ivan was much more straightforward in his grudges when he had them, and in this, his interest was genuine.

            “I assure you, it’s all well intentioned, he smirked, leaning forwards even as Alfred huffed and wheeled around to stride away, “You’re courting scandal,” he added, as the teen strode away from him purposefully, “Even if they didn’t know where you went, or what you did, you’re rather…disheveled.  It’ll be fuel enough for the gossip…for the ‘gossiping old birds,’ as you called them.”

            Alfred froze for a moment, in the frame the archway made, of ruby rich roses washed inky dark from the night.  And for a moment, Ivan could see those richly woven golden tresses decked with flowers.  It may have been considered a female thing - flowers, their arrangement and all that went with it save for the courting aspect males had to know - but he _saw_ in that moment, a tangle of woven roses and a bouquet of other flowers intertwined with that braid swishing at the young American’s back; a coronet of colorless roses to crown the subject of his desire.  Colorless, his mind noted idly, because any color at all would try to take from his beauty as much as the night had tried.

            And then, like a thief in the shadows of the night, the image was gone.

            “Don’t misunderstand my intentions, Mister Jones,” he cautioned, striding close enough to lean just enough over the young ambassador’s son that his _intentions_ were quite clear, even if they’d remained thus far unspoken.

            Alfred turned, then; shifted his stance so he tilted Ivan’s way, tossed his head to look at him over one shoulder, golden locks spilling decadently down his back and some loosened ones over the other shoulder.  And then he smiled, teeth gleaming sharp against the moon’s gentle rays, “I think I understand your intentions quite well,” he said, “I’ll risk it.”

            He walked off then, stride purposeful and proud, unyieldingly strong, and Ivan followed his path back up to the balcony with his gaze.  A grin unlike any other crossed his face, drawing out a well of churning interest, satisfaction, and the thrill that came with a chase that would have a surprising, but satisfying ending, no matter how things would result.  If Alfred thought Ivan would ignore the challenge he’d proposed so slyly…well.

            It seemed like he’d consider courting someone after all.

**Author's Note:**

> The gazebo seen in this fic is inspired by [this](https://pin.it/ek562fyvxjwhxe) picture.  
> And this is some awesome [art](http://aph-fedya.tumblr.com/post/168492162793/palalife-countrussia-x-ambassadoramerica) I saw on tumblr that also helped inspire some of the scenery going into this fic.


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